


Knowledge is power

by Tashilover



Category: Elementary, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: AU, Crossover, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-17 21:21:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1402843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tashilover/pseuds/Tashilover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If a gun can make you king, then a book can make you God.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crossover with Downey!Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Joan had only been drunk once in her life. She had just turned twenty-one and her girlfriends had taken her out to celebrate. She remembered her first glass of beer. She remembered her first glass of wine. The moment the shots were introduced, that's when everything became fuzzy. She came to hours later, asleep in her own bed, wearing different clothing from the night before.

Though she quietly confirmed she hadn't been raped or assaulted, the clear fact she couldn't recall any of the events after scared her. Not even her friends, the ones who were supposed to stay sober for her sake, could tell her what happened. After that, Joan vowed she would never drink so excessively again. It was a promise that was easy to keep, especially now as a sober companion, she needed to keep herself clean for her clients' sake. For Sherlock's.

So when she awoke one morning to find herself in a strange bed with no clue how she got there, she nearly panicked.

_Nearly_ panicked. Sherlock trained her on this, on the possibility if she had gotten kidnapped. He voiced how he hoped she would never have to use such skills, but better safe than sorry and all that.

First things first: don't panic. Panicking won't help her, it'll only help increase the chances of hyperventilating and fainting. Keep cool, keep calm.

Secondly, assess where she was, and go from there. Was she safe? Was she capable of moving, of leaving?

Joan's hands and feet weren't tied. Her mouth was unobstructed, her eyes free. Where she was exactly... she didn't know.

Her first thought she must've broken into a museum the night before and fell asleep in one of its mock-up Victorian historical scenes. The whole room looked like it stepped out of a romance novel. Besides the bed that smelled faintly of goose feathers, everything in the room was at least a hundred years old. The chairs, the lanterns, the table, the designs and patterns on the wall and fabrics. It was her brother who was the historian, not Joan. He would know better. All that was missing from this room was a wax figurine of Queen Victoria.

Joan got up and moved away from the bed, happy to see she was still clothed. She was in her pajamas, but clothed. No shoes, though. No cell phone either.

There were two windows on the far wall, the drapes half closed, allowing some sunlight to stream in. She decided to go towards it, to see where she was and what to do next.

She stopped in her tracks when the door to the room suddenly opened. A man, as tall as she was, stepped in. He was dressed in a rumpled white shirt, dark pants with suspenders that hung uselessly to his side, and in his hands he held a tray with a tea kettle and sandwiches. He was clean shaven, and yet still looked rather dirty.

"Ah good, you're awake," he said in an English accent. He crossed the room to a table that sit in the middle and placed the tea tray down. "I apologise, do you speak English? I'm afraid my Cantonese is rather rusty."

"I... yes, I speak English."

The man's eyebrows rose slightly in surprise. " _American_. Wasn't expecting that. Please, miss, do sit down."

Joan wondered if she had fallen into a Jane Austen novel. Everything seemed too real, too elaborate to be a dream or hallucination. "Where am I?" She asked.

"You're in my home," the man said. "My bedroom, specifically."

Joan stiffened. "Why am I in your bedroom?"

"That was what I was wondering. I found you here, early this morning. Over there, actually."

He pointed to a spot on the floor only a few feet away.

"So I picked you up and put you in my bed. Don't be alarmed, I kept my hands to myself."

He wiggled his fingers to emphasize. Joan internally shuddered. "Right. I should probably be going. Thank you for giving me your bed."

"Wait, just wait," the man said, stepping in front of her. "I have so many questions."

"I'll answer them another time. I just want to go home."

When he didn't move, Joan curled her hand into a fist, readying herself to fight. The man noticed this, and Joan thought he would at least back away, recognizing the threat, but no. He merely jaunted his chin up, practically daring her to follow through.

Don't say she didn't warn him.

Joan struck out, using her other hand to catch him in surprise. The man anticipated this, blocked her attack, and pushed forward, forcing her back.

Joan was not an experienced fighter, but she was a fast learner and her body quickly fell into the rhythm of exchanging blows. She punched, she kicked, she tried to force the man back, to make him move out of her way.

The man was clearly more experienced than her at this. He blocked every punch, ducked every swipe. He didn't hit back, kept his movements offensive. Joan was sure if he decided to fight back for real, she would be on the ground in a second. He was toying with her, studying her.

"What's going on here?" Another man had entered the room. This man was taller, leaner in body and face, and had a mustache that was too thin for his lip. He was dressed more sharply than the smaller man, with a suit, tie, and shined black shoes. He had a cane in his hand, with a limp to match.

The arrival of the new voice was exactly what Joan needed. The short man turned, dropping his guard long enough for Joan to clock him across the jaw. The move was meant to stun, and the man stumbled away with a little groan.

Joan ran for the door.

"Watson!" The small man cried out. "Don't let her leave!"

Who the hell was the tiny guy screaming at? Joan didn't care.

Mustache man, surprisingly, stepped out of the way. "Take care, miss," he said, letting her pass. "There are boots at the bottom of the staircase, be sure to use those."

Joan fled out of the room. The stairs were to her right. The rest of the house looked as rich as the bed room, elaborately decorated and colorful. Joan ran down the stairs, wincing as her breasts bounced heavily against her chest. Like mustache man said, there were untied lace work boots at the bottom of the stairs.

From behind she could hear the men's conversation echoing down.

" _Why did you let her leave?"_

_"Because she looked frightened!"_

_"Bring her back, she's- She has to come back!"_

Joan shoved her feet into the boots. They were big on her. She looped the laces as quickly as she could, then shoved forward to the front door. She wretched it opened.

Then closed it a scant second later.

As crazed as the man up the stairs was, there was no way he could fake _that_.

Joan opened the door again, this time only just an inch. She peered through the crack to the outside world. It was as if she stepped onto a movie set. People, women and men, walked by in full Victorian clothing. Some men even wore top hats, while the women held tiny, dainty umbrellas in their hands. There were buggies, horses, poorly paved streets, and the distinct smell of _armpit_.

She closed the door. She backed away.

"Madam," the weird little man said from behind. Joan heard him calmly walk down the steps as she lowered herself to sit down. "May I ask you your name?"

"Joan," she said. She was not panicking. She was too well trained for that. "Watson."

She heard mustache man breathed a small, "What...?"

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Watson," said the little man. "I am Sherlock Holmes."

 

 

 

 

 

Joan refused to take off the boots. No matter how stunned she felt, she was not going to lose her one and only pair of shoes should she felt the urge to run again. Holmes didn't fight her on it.

He lead her back up the stairs, this time to the library instead of the bedroom. Mustache man brought in the tea tray. As amused as he was before, he wasn't so much now. His eyes were suspicious, throwing secret looks to Holmes as he poured the tea.

"Let me guess," Joan said. "You're Watson."

Mustache man was mildly impressed. "Yes, I am. _John_ Watson."

"Of course," said Joan. "Of course, _John Watson_. And Mr. _Sherlock Holmes_. It's very nice to meet the both of you."

The emphasis had the two men share a look. Holmes' was more amused than Watson. "And Miss Watson, do you remember how you came about my home?"

"No, I don't. But I suppose that does not matter as this is a dream."

"A dream? You believe yourself to be asleep?"

"Of course. How else would I rationalize..." she gestured with her hand to the flourished room. "...all of this?"

Homles was about to say something when Watson cut in. "What are the symptoms of dreams," he said. "If you believe you are in one, how do you prove it?"

Her own dream was rationalizing with her. Okay. "You can't read in dreams. Turning on and off lights for some odd reason does not work. Numbers are scrambled-"

The moment Joan said _You can't read in dreams_ , Watson immediately walked to the nearest shelf. He grabbed a random book, opened it to the middle, and placed it in front of her. "Please," he said. "Read."

Joan looked down. She swallowed.

_Hamamelis virginiana_ _was introduced into English gardens by Peter Collinson, who maintained correspondence with plant hunters in the American colonies-_

She turned away, cupping a hand to her mouth. "Oh my god."

"You're awake, Miss Watson. This is not a dream. You're here now."

Joan was trained to keep her cool when she became a doctor, trained even more when she became a sober companion. She was used to having her patients and clients scream at her, spit at her, yell racist slurs at her. Realizing she had traveled to a another dimension entirely was something else.

"I'm okay..." she said the moment Watson took hold of her wrist to check the beating of her heart.

He blinked at her. "You're ...what?

Oh, right. Different time era, different words. "I'm... alright," Joan corrected herself. "I'll be... fine."

She pulled her wrist out of his hand. She breathed in deeply, calming her racing heart. She was going to get through this. And when she got back to her home, to _her_ Sherlock, she was going to have one _hell_ of a story to tell.

She reached out, grabbed a sandwich and shoved it into her mouth. Watson was a little surprised by her un-ladylike behavior but did not comment on it. Holmes appeared amused. Joan chewed the sandwich, swallowing it thickly, followed by a swing of tea. It was good.

"Are you a doctor?" Holmes asked slyly.

"Yes."

"I'm impressed," said Watson. "I didn't know they allowed women to be doctors in America. Or... China? Japan?"

"America," Joan said. What _year_ was it? Did the Civil war already happen? It was an alternate universe, for all she knew the Civil War never happened and people flew on space ships.

Oh god, she knew what a spaceship was. She knew how airplanes fly. She had medical knowledge that was a hundred years in advance. Oh _god_.

"Don't panic," Holmes said, tapping Joan sharply on her knuckle. "It won't you do any good. Instead, embrace everything. Breath in, breath out, and tell me..."

He pulled out Joan's phone from his robe pocket.

"What the hell is this thing?"

Great. The man told her not to panic and then he sprung this on her. "It's my phone."

She took a sip of tea.

"Ah. What's a phone?"

"It's a device in which to contact people."

"Yes, and how...?"

He was getting agitated. If Joan didn't cut the bullshit soon, he was going to start yelling. She knew he would. Watson was busy staring at Joan's phone. Holmes had not pressed any of the buttons and it thankfully stayed dark. Watson was looking at her phone cover of _Garfield_.

Might as well go all the way.

"That is my phone. It has the ability to communicate over distances with other people who also have phones. And when I mean long distances, I'm talking about over oceans and continents. How is this done? Through radio waves. You see, when we speak our voices create waves and a machine takes those waves and converts them into electromagnetism. We've known about this for many years now an it's actually common knowledge. I'm from the year 2014. Yes, I'm from the twenty-first century. There are flying machines known as airplanes that can carry people across oceans in a matter of hours. If you have a piece of paper, I can totally do a _Planet of the Apes_ for you and build a paper airplane. A man has been on the moon. The president of the United States is a black man. Cheese comes in a can. My phone is also a dictionary, a camera, an address book, and has the ability to hold over fifty thousand pages worth of information on it. But most of it are cat videos and Sherlock's random text messages. Yes, I said Sherlock. I have a Sherlock. He's incredible and brilliant but also unpredictable and he never let's me sleep in. If you hand my phone over, I can show you a picture of him and won't that totally _blow your minds_?"

Joan took a breath, then a sip of tea.

Watson was gaping at her.

Holmes stared at her phone, his eyebrows pinching together, and said, "Am I handsome?"


	2. Chapter 2

She couldn't get any signal.

Of course she didn't think she _would_ , but on the off chance she was wrong-

Joan held her phone close to her chest, unsure of what to do. Should she keep her phone on, risking battery drainage in hopes her Sherlock would call, or turn it off for now, just in case she needed it later?

She turned it off.

Though it was only the 1890's and the witch trails were long over, having this phone was going to cause more problems than it solved. She was still, after all, a woman of Asian descent. Even in her own century, that was enough cause to be worried for her own safety.

Joan laid the phone on top of her twenty-first century clothes, then stepped back, grimacing. Already the dress Holmes had given her were digging uncomfortably into her rib cage and hip. He promised her he will take her to a proper dress shop for a better, fitting dress, but for now, she'll have to wear one of his.

"Yours?" Joan had asked.

"Do twenty-first century ladies have a problem with that?" Holmes said, cocking his head curiously.

The only time in Joan's memory of her Sherlock wearing a dress was when he was recording himself to sing Frozen. "No," she said, turning away.

Joan... really didn't like this Sherlock Holmes.

He was polite enough, but something about him grated on her nerves. He was like a puppy who kept demanding the attention of those around him, but without the tact or sensitivty of her Sherlock. It was like Holmes knew full well he was being rude and sarcastic but didn't care.

Okay, that was a lot like her Sherlock. But her Sherlock apologized when he was aware he had crossed a line. This Holmes didn't.

As such. "I am not giving you a sample of my blood."

Holmes pouted. "If you want me to help you-"

"No," said Joan. "I am the one with the twenty-first century medical knowledge, so don't think you can trick me."

He shivered when she said that. "There is so much I want to ask."

"I am not entirely sure if I should share. One accidental slip and the future could become monkeys."

"What?"

"I- ah- nothing. It just means... things could go wrong if I share too much. I could make things worse."

"You could make things better. Introduce medicines that could save dozens of lives, machines that could approve food production, communication-"

"Monkeys," Joan said again.

 _John Watson_ had been quiet for the longest time. He kept running his fingers over his ugly-looking mustache, contemplating something. Joan knew it was about her. His stare was getting creepy.

"Well, obviously you have a better grip on time travel than I," Holmes said, giving up the argument. "But you cannot deny me everything! I have so many questions-"

"Mon. Keys."

"You're almost as stubborn as Watson! No, I take that back, you ARE as stubborn as Watson! I should have foreseen this travesty!"

Watson finally turned his gaze away from Joan to Holmes. He cocked his head in amusment. "You forsaw the day where there would be two of me?"

"Double the Watsons, double the fun."

"Oh my god," said Joan quietly under her breath.

Holmes still caught it. "You also use take the Lord's name in vain quite often. Are churches no longer avaliable in your time?"

"There are. People are less punished and scrutinized for such things, though."

"I took the Lord's name in vain last week and a woman slapped me across the face. Yet another reason I wish to see your time." Holmes ran the back of his hand down his own cheek. "Less pain."

"You wouldn't like it. There's also more noise, more stimulation. My Sherlock sometimes has trouble-"

"How often do women die in childbirth in your time?"

The question came out of nowhere, startling Joan. She turned to Watson. The man sat there, completely serious, waiting for her answer.

"A lot less than they do now," Joan said. There was no harm in answering such a question, but a sense of unease scurried up Joan's back. His intensity intimidated her.

"What about those who die from diseases? Last week an outbreak of the measles infected the homeless population, and at least twenty people have already died. Has your time cured such inflictions?"

"Watson-" Holmes started.

"No," Joan said. "We still have measles."

Watson narrowed his eyes at her. "But...?"

"Look, Dr. Watson, I understand what you're trying to do. But I can't help you. The technology simply isn't here. I would need a highly sophisticated lab in order to make half of the medicine needed-"

"I have a lab!" Holmes said.

"A sterile, clean lab in a well-ventilated area, where it cannot be contaminated by outside forces like smoke and dust."

"Oh..."

Watson suddenly stood. "Come with me to the hospital. I can show you our labs, then you can determine if you can help-"

"If I change the future somehow-"

"I HAVE AN ENTIRE WARD OF CHILDREN DYING, I DON'T CARE HOW IT'LL AFFECT YOUR FUTURE, I CARE HOW IT'LL AFFECT _THEIRS_!"

His yell echoed off the walls and high ceilings, ringing over and over in Joan's ears. When it died away only a few seconds later, Joan was gripping the front of her stupidly warm dress tightly.

"Good lord, Watson" said Holmes. "What a set of lungs on you."

Do no harm. That's not how the actual oath went, but the basic concept behind it was there. The number one cause of deaths in every country, in every era, was infection. Joan herself lost multiple patients due to an unseen infection brought on by trauma or stupidity. If the year was right, then World War One was just right around the corner. Mustard gas was going to kill thousands, but disease was going to kill millions.

There was no point in debating. Joan already made up her mind. "I assume you don't have penicillin."

Watson's face softened. "No, we don't. Is it something we can make?"

"Possibly." Joan stood up. "Show me the hospital."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mentions of drug use,

In the twenty-first century, London was a beautiful, cultured city filled with endless sights to behold. Joan wished she had visited the city under better circumtances, and secretly had wanted to do all the little trips Sherlock planned to take her on. (He said he solved the mystery of Jack the Ripper and wanted to take Joan on a midnight Ripper walk for fun.) Joan really wanted to play tourist and see everything the city had to offer.

But as beautiful as London was, Joan had to remind herself back in the late nineteenth century, people still had the habit of throwing their shit out the window.

Though Joan was in a carriage and was in no danger of splatter, she still flinched back when she saw yet another stream of human waste tossed out the window and onto the street. She wanted to take a shower so badly.

How many people had typhoid? How many were dead from cholera? Joan said she was willing to help, but there was no point until the sanitary conditions improved. These people needed more than some miracle drug. They needed clean water, a proper toilet system, and- good lord, was everyone _smoking_? It was a wonder any of them survived this long.

"You don't look happy," Holmes said.

Joan pulled back from the window. Hell, even riding in the carriage was sickening enough. How many women miscarried from these minature roller coasters? "I'm fine."

"No, please, don't keep it in. Tell me, what's making you look so... well, the crease in your forehead hasn't gone away this entire time. I'd imagine that's a bad thing."

"It's nothing. I've just been reminded how privilege I am."

"As a doctor, I imagine you see disease everywhere. It must drive you mad. Do not fret, my dear. Watson and I are very clean people."

Holmes suddenly pulled out a gold-colored metal case from his coat pocket. He opened it, and a roll of cigarettes were inside.

Before he could pop one into his mouth, Joan said, "You do know those are bad for you."

"So is cake," said Holmes.

"Smoking causes cancer. Multiple cancers. Heart, liver, breast, prostate, mouth, nose- the list goes on and on. It causes weight gain, rots away teeth, and it can shrink testicles as much as twenty-five percent. In some cases, rot them off completely."

Holmes paused mid-way from lifting a cigarette to his lips. He frowned, then slowly put the cigarette back into its case.

Joan wondered is this Sherlock Holmes had a drug addiction as well. Was it even her business to find out? She thought back to that viral photograph of a 1920's children's cough medicine, and among the ingredients listed were heroin and mercury. It wouldn't surprise her if every other person in London was an addict. Her Sherlock used cocaine and ecstasy. What was the popular drug in this era? Opium?

"Miss Joan," Watson said gently. "I want to apologize for yelling at you earlier. It was... cruel of me to guilt-trip you into coming. I'm sorry."

Joan was startled. She was never going to get used to talking to her alternate-universe self. "I... thank you. I appreciate that. I do understand your frustration. Even in the twenty-first century, there are still many disease we have yet to find cures for."

"That's understandable. The penicillin will help a lot of people?"

"More than you can imagine."

Watson started smiling. The wrinkles around his eyes deepened.

"I forbid you to fall in love with her," said Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, for the love of god, don't smoke. It's so so so so bad for you and everyone around you.

**Author's Note:**

> One shot for now. Would like to come back to it soon.


End file.
